


The Host

by Taiyun



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Other, ahh i remember shipping this, and dumb, but i was watching outlast videos and wanted to write this, humanizing the Walrider??, i guess??, it has a mind of its own, this is short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taiyun/pseuds/Taiyun
Summary: Written from the perspective of the Walrider. Set at the end of the first game, as Miles is trying to get up the stairs to leave the underground laboratory. When Miles becomes the new host, the Walrider plans to keep it that way.





	The Host

**Author's Note:**

> why did I write this? 'I was watching Outlast videos' is the best explanation I have  
> but I like writing from the Walrider's point of view because I feel its more sentient than it appears. so I like exploring that. I thought about maybe continuing this into a multichaptered story, or not. if you think I should, lemme know.

I didn’t want to have to do this to him.

I never intended to do this. In fact, I intended to kill him.

But he left me no choice.

As he staggered up the stairs leading out of the laboratory, I could feel his weakened body beginning to relinquish itself to my control. He was very, very weak. Injured. Tainted. Traumatized. Scarred. Exactly what I needed in a host.

There was no need for me to break him. He was already broken.

My nanites thrummed through his bloodstream with every beat of his slowed heart. The static of my being infiltrated his brain, and I could hear his every thought. I could feel his every feeling, although the pain did not register. His heart became my heart, and his breaths became my breaths. Every movement, every spasm, became my own. I became him, and he became me.

I could feel him dying.

His mind was a jumble of terror and survival, the desire, the _need,_ to escape from this godforsaken place. Was I ready to let him leave? No, we had to return. Whether he agreed or not, whether his soul still resided in this flesh bag or if he was now numb to the carnage around him, I was now in control. We had to return.

I felt the footsteps before the doors opened. Doctor Rudolf Wernicke, how Billy had loved him. Cared for him. Spared him. It was thanks to me that such things were possible. Truthfully, I had to thank him as well. Humans really don’t hold any type of significance to me, and after what I’ve seen in this wretched asylum, all I see in my mind’s eye when I think of humans are sly, depraved beasts that kick others down and flaunt their profit-hungry demeanors or are the ones being kicked, driven to mental insanity, until that insanity consumes them and they become as beastly as those above them.

But who am I to speak?

I am no God, and I am no savior. I am an independent entity, and I do what I think is best.

Wernicke created me, he was there when I saw for the first time, he was there when I broke free, and Billy made me spare him when I set out to slaughter.

 The guns were pointed at me, at my host. I became angry.

As he raised his bloody hands in feeble surrender, I waited for a German voice to tell them to stop. Or to say something.

But I didn’t hear it.

The first bullet ripped into my host’s chest. I knew, because I could feel it.

I had never known this. The strike of pain, so forceful it was like whiplash. Sudden, damaging, piercing. It seared from the entrance wound and seemed to engulf my body in flames I could not see. I wanted to scream.

Time seemed to slow down.

And then, no more pain.

I began to separate from my host as he was brutally shot, detaching my consciousness from his and leaving him to the floor. I was furious. Wernicke didn’t stop them. I felt the pain of a bullet. And most importantly, they had endangered my host.

I had felt a semblance of this protectiveness with Billy, but with this reporter, it was overwhelming.

**What have they done.**

My ghastly voice and the shrieks of the soldiers, calling me _thing, creature, "_ what the fuck is _that",_ was all that the soundproof walls contained as bullets fazed through me and my hands reached to clutch and squeeze and drag and throw. To kill, to splatter. No, no, no, they hurt him, they tried to kill him, they tried to kill me. They weren’t leaving here alive, no one was. How dare they, they can’t touch him, only I can.

“Gott in Himmel. You have become the host,” Wernicke gasped, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Blood painted the walls, viscera was spread around my hovering feet. I turned to face Wernicke once I could no longer recognize the very limbs and parts that made up the shivering bodies of the soldiers. I was sick of seeing them, their ugly faces.

I stared at the old man.

Why didn’t you stop them?

You sent me this new host, you knew he had one way out and that was through me.

Yet you had him shot down?

Was that your attempt of killing me? To pick off my new host, just as he had done to Billy, knowing I could not exist without some sort of containment, without a body to belong to?

My nanites etched themselves into the reporter’s heart, traveled through his valves, strengthened his muscular wall. I would not let him die.

Blood continued to pump through his veins, and leak from his wounds. His slow heartbeat remained. His chest rose and fell.

As I levitated closer to the relic of a man, I felt a light tugging at the back of my head, like a distant voice, a life hanging by a thread.

Wake up, host. We haven’t lost the game yet.


End file.
